


And You Are Not Alone In This

by ReaperWriter



Series: One of the Wonders [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Character Study, Early Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Immortal Husbands, M/M, Pre-Canon, Touch Starved Nicolo di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter
Summary: Nicolò's arms wrap tight around himself when he sleeps. Yusuf notices.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: One of the Wonders [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934449
Comments: 11
Kudos: 433





	And You Are Not Alone In This

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post on Tumblr by WickedPact: https://ruby-white-rabbit.tumblr.com/post/630369505398472704/wickedpact-joe-nicky-spooning-is-obviously
> 
> Title from the lyrics of Timshel by Mumford and Sons.

Yusuf misses it, the first few nights after they flee the battlefield. In his defense, his mind is still a whirlwind of his own immortality, the loss of Jerusalem, and his new traveling companion, who until recently was intent on sending him to paradise. At times, Yusuf thinks he might still be considering it. And when it’s his turn to watch, his focus is on the desert around them. Not on the man across the fire.

But on the fourth night, they find a small abandoned farm, the house mostly still standing. They’re able to bar the door and light a small fire in the brazier. They still trade watches, but all Yusuf must focus on is the door and one small, high window. So it’s easier to see this Frank he’s saddled with as he lays out his tattered cloak. He kneels, his back to Yusuf, and mutters in his Latin for a long time. Then he curls up on his side, staring into the fire until his eyes close.

The deeper sleep takes Yusuf’s former enemy, the more he curls in on himself. Not from the cold. The little house is snug with the brazier lit. Warm enough that a bead of sweat runs down the back of Yusuf’s neck. No, this is something else.

His one arm tucks under his head in place of a pillow, but the other wraps tightly around himself. Like a little boy with a stomach ache. Slowly, as the night slides on, his knees curl up and tuck into his waist. And then he starts to rock. Just a little. Back and forth.

Yusuf bites his lip. He doesn’t like this man. He doesn’t trust this man. But he recognizes the signs of someone in pain. What pain it could be, when they are apparently now blessed or cursed as they are, he knows not. But for all he has spent months blood drenched and hip deep in a war he never wished for, Yusuf hates to see others in pain.

“Nicolò,” he calls softly.

The man whimpers.

Yusuf sighs. There’s a very good chance he’s about to get stabbed to death. Again. 

Moving carefully, he reaches out and gently shakes his companion’s shoulder. “Nicolò.”

This time, he jerks awake as Yusuf jumps back, narrowly missing the swing of the dagger from under his head. “What?”

“Are you well? You seem in pain?”

The man stares at him blankly. 

Yusuf sighs. “You. Hurt?” he asks in broken Romanche.

Nicolò blinks at him and then frowns, shaking his head. “No. Not hurt.”

You're lying, Yusuf thinks. But it’s not a fight he wants to have tonight.

“Sorry.”

Nicolò nods. Then he rolls over, his back to Yusuf as he pretends to go back to sleep until it’s his turn to be on watch.

***

Later, when they are no longer enemies or strangers trapped with each other by circumstance, when their hearts have found each other the way their hands did that day outside of Jerusalem, they lay together in a little house not until that first one.

Oh, it’s in much better repair, because it’s theirs. They’ve stopped for the last two years in a village in Anatolia where a man who looks like Yusuf and one who looks like Nicolò draw no comments. Tonight, in their bed, Nicolò lies in front, between Yusuf and the door. And though Yusuf now wraps his own arms tight around his moon, his light, his destiny, Nicolò still hugs himself in his sleep.

“Will you tell me, ya amar,” Yusuf asks, pressing a kiss to the base of his lover’s throat, “why? Why do you wrap your arms so tightly around yourself when you sleep?”

Nicolò stiffens in his hold. “I don’t.”

Yusuf’s hand moves to where Nicolò’s own arm clutches tight around his waist, stroking his fingers along it gently. “Habibi.”

The shuddering breath his beloved takes breaks Yusuf’s heart. “I...I’ve never had this.”

“This?” Yusuf prompts.

“Someone to hold me like this.”

Yusuf curses silently. “But, your mother?”

“Where I come from, mothers of my social class birth children, but we are raised by nurses. I saw her a few times a week, but she didn’t...she never. And then she died.” His love’s voice barely rises above a whisper, but it echoes in their little home. “My brothers were older, my sister had her own chamber. And then I was sent away to the monastery when I was still young.”

Nicolò shrugs, like his words aren’t flaying Yusuf apart.

“It doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters. Ya amar, it matters so much.” Tears fill Yusuf’s eyes. He presses his face into Nicolò’s neck. “Do you know how very much I love you, my Nicolò?”

“I do.” Nicolò takes Yusuf’s hand, drawing it up to his lips. “As I love you, caro mio.”

“As long as we live, my arms are yours. Always.”

“I know.” Nicolò sighs softly, his body relaxing. “I love you.”

“And I you.” Yusuf presses his forehead against the back of his lover’s head, his arms snuggling him tight. “Forever.”

  
  



End file.
